A Shortcut to Paradise (10 page)

He must have been around sixty-five and looked like a man to reckon with. His manner was prickly, as Clàudia had warned, but he seemed keen to know what we were after. He scrutinized us disapprovingly and lit a cigarette. Our yuppie dress-style jarred with the touristy-cum-ragamuffin atmosphere in the square, and I instinctively lifted my hand to my pocket to check my wallet was still in place. He grimaced loftily as he watched me. Then he took off his hat and ran his hand through his grey, rather wavy hair. He still had a good head of hair. I noticed his eyes were like Clàudia Agulló's, albeit sunk behind wrinkles that stuck out like scars.

“Mr Arquer…” Borja began.

“Arquer, drop the rest, no need to stand on ceremony.”

“Arquer, then. I'm Borja Masdéu,” continued my brother as he handed him one of his elegant visiting cards, “and this is my partner, Eduard Martínez. We aren't really detectives, but as a result of circumstances we don't need to dwell on, we've been asked to investigate (unofficially, of course) a matter that's related to a murder. We've been told you are retired but still have good contacts in the force.”

“Maybe I do, and maybe I don't,” he answered guardedly.

“We need certain information. A copy of the forensic report, of the fingerprints, a list of the clues the police found at the scene of the crime… All that sort of thing, you must know what I mean,” my brother went on a little nervously.

Lluís Arquer listened and looked at him, not saying a word, as if Borja were a Martian who'd just landed from another planet. He must be thinking his sleek, greasy hair and flashy tie hardly squared with the job of tracking down murderers. We were like two sparrows in front of an old cat that was ready to show his claws.

“Drugs? Mafia? What the hell's all this about?” the detective blurted out, knitting his eyebrows.

“No, it's not like that. It involves writers. The victim's name is Marina Dolç.”

“Mmm… Yes, I read about that in the newspapers.

They smashed her head in at the Ritz, right? But I thought they'd jailed the fellow who did it.”

“The police have got it wrong. That's why we…”

“And you say you're not detectives. What the hell are you then? Judging by your mugs, I'd say you're legal beagles…” he rasped as scornfully as he could.

“Not exactly,” I answered. “We're consultants, we run a company…”

“So you aren't lawyers, then?”

“No, as I was saying…”

“Are you armed? You carrying a bazooka?”

“No, we smoke Camel Lights,” replied Borja, taking a packet from his pocket.

“That's right… My partner is a real joker… Ha, ha, ha…. No, we're not carrying guns,” I said after he noticed how red I'd gone. “Times have changed, what with computers and all that…” I continued apologetically. “As my partner said, we're not detectives, but in exceptional circumstances…”

“No need to tell me your life story,” he cut me off in full flow. “I could make a couple of calls. I still have
friends in the force who owe me a few favours. What's in it for me?”

“Say five hundred euros?” my brother suggested timidly.

“Make it a grand. Three hundred in advance,” he went on, giving us no chance to bargain. “Come here on Tuesday, same time. I'll be here. And if you need to hire a man with a bazooka…” he concluded, tapping his jacket pocket.

“Thanks. We hope it won't come to that,” I responded, hoping he didn't decide to show us his pistol. Just then a couple of
mossos
on their beat were briskly wandering our way.

We dug deep into our pockets and came up with two hundred and eighty euros between us. When we left home that morning, we'd never imagined we'd end up doing a deal with a low-life Barcelona detective and weren't carrying any more cash. Lluís Arquer carefully pocketed the notes and coins while giving us a withering look. It was clear that neither our dress sense nor my brother's courteous manners cut any ice with him. He gulped down what was left of his beer and stood up.

“I have to hit the road. This is on you.” And he was gone.

 

 

Lluís Arquer had pulled a good trick: he'd cleaned us out completely at the Ambos Mundos and left us with a bill on the table of seven euros ninety. That was the cost of the three glasses of draught beer we'd drunk, although Borja, who was on a diet because according to him (and him alone) he was developing a paunch, hadn't even sipped his. We'd been forced to give the detective all the money we were carrying, and now needed to get money from a cash point. My brother had mislaid his wallet, which was par for the course (particularly when he's dining with Merche), but luckily I had mine. Relatively lucky, that's to say, because on the short walk between the terrace of the Ambos Mundos, where Borja was waiting under the steely gaze of the waiters, and the cash point on the Ramblas where I was heading to extract money, my wallet mysteriously disappeared from my pocket.

I won't deny that it was my fault, because I had been daydreaming for a few seconds, hypnotized by the perfectly synchronized movement of a pair of round, tanned breasts coming my way braless under a low-cut, tight-fitting tank top. There wasn't a cent in my wallet, but unfortunately it did contain my credit card as well as my ID, and that was a real nuisance. Luckily, as it was a few minutes to two, the bank was still open. I went in and explained my problem, but it was a complete waste of time. However hard I worked at telling them my wallet had just been stolen, I couldn't budge a single bank clerk, let alone get to see the manager. They were very sorry, they said, but they couldn't give me a single euro if I didn't have my ID. I persisted but finally had to give up. I knew the bank employees had their hands tied and could do nothing: I'd spent twenty years of my life behind a bank counter and knew how those places functioned. I did manage to block my card, but then had to return to the Ambos Mundos more skint than before and with my self-image shattered.

Borja, who was waiting impatiently for me, couldn't believe it when, shame-faced and feeling pathetic, I confessed my wallet had been stolen. We were stymied,
because we were suddenly completely stuck in the Plaça Reial on a Friday lunchtime, without a cent in our pockets and a bill for three beers. Quite naturally, the waiters at the Ambos Mundos were beginning to seethe. They wouldn't swallow the story of the stolen wallet, or perhaps they did, but couldn't care less. I suppose it wasn't the first time somebody had tried this excuse to avoid paying the bill and they weren't impressed. A swarm of tourists were trying to take our table and hinting we should get up and go. Borja and I decided to sit this one out and stay calm.

I could always call Montse and ask her for help, but I knew my wife was very busy that day at her Alternative Centre. One of her partners was ill and she'd had to take responsibility for the yoga classes. If I forced her to stand up a dozen pre- and post-menopausal women with hot flushes and sugar- and nicotine-abstinence syndrome, my wife would be angry and quite rightly so. It's OK if pickpockets snaffle the wallets of flabby tourists idly strolling down the Ramblas, but I'm from Barcelona and I know you have to watch it on the Ramblas. Dodging the artful dodgers is one of the attractions of the territory, I suppose, and I'd acted the fool and been caught out. On the other hand, I imagine Borja was embarrassed about ringing Merche to ask for small change, and Lola's mobile was switched off or she'd left it at home. And we couldn't have recourse to Lluís Arquer, although we knew he lived nearby. We had no desire to confirm his suspicions that Borja and I were a couple of well-dressed dolts. The waiters at the Ambos Mundos didn't seem inclined to let us slip off, and, besides, there was the minor detail that we'd have to walk back to my house, which meant a good hour sweating under a blistering sun. I didn't want to be the one to renege on our agreement about keeping calm, but things were starting to look bleak. Finally, as usual, my brother had one of his brainwaves.

“Listen, Eduard,” he sounded me out, “you could go to the Ramblas and act like a statue for a while. I bet you'd get the money in under an hour. I reckon twelve euros would do to pay for the beers and our metro tickets.”

“What? Are you mad?” I roared. “Do you think I'm going to act like a statue in front of everyone! Forget it!” I wasn't going to let him bamboozle me into that one.

“All right! All right! So I'll have to come to the rescue, as usual,” he said angrily. And he picked up the brown plastic saucer where they'd left the bill and headed for the Ramblas.

Human statues had been the fashion on the Ramblas for years. They stood still and when someone threw them a coin, they changed position or performed. Some were trite and some were sophisticated, from characters smeared with coppery make-up to look like GIs from the Second World War to a girl spectacularly bedecked in flowers and foliage trying to be an allegory of spring. Some were amusing and some were scary, like the guy doing a bloody, decapitated head routine served up on a silver platter on a white tablecoth. I can't think why tourists like being photographed next to that. There were so many statues that it had to be a good way to earn one's living, even if the competition was tough. For that very reason I wasn't at all clear that the sudden appearance from nowhere of an amateur dressed up like a yuppie would be welcomed by the mime professionals who suffered under thick face-packs from the early morning. I hoped my brother wouldn't return from his
artistic debut with a black eye or his elegant Armani suit in tatters.

Nothing of the sort. Borja was back after half an hour, sweating and out of breath, but apparently safe and sound. He'd collected twelve euros and thirty cents and that meant we had enough to pay for the drinks and our metro tickets and spare ourselves a long walk which I really didn't fancy. We paid for the beers, left a fortycent tip and headed for the Liceu station. It was almost three o'clock and my stomach was rumbling.

“You won't believe this, but I bumped into a golfing acquaintance while I was playing the fool,” an amused Borja told me.

“Heavens, I'm so sorry!…” I replied sincerely. “You don't say you played the fool dressed up like that? Maybe you didn't need to go that far…”

“No, of course not, I simply acted myself. As I was the only one not wearing a disguise and not doing anything silly, the tourists were really fascinated by my character. But, even so, standing still is exhausting! At least I found a shady corner!…”

“So what did you do when they threw you a coin?” I asked, intrigued. “Because I suppose that's the fun bit, perform and…”

“Well, I bent down, picked it up and pocketed it, naturally. What did you expect me to do? A couple of fat cows in miniskirts had their photos taken with me and gave me two euros. And an American woman pinched my bum. A moustachioed guy in a tank top also tried it on, but I stopped him in his tracks.”

“God, Borja, how desperate! And you met someone you know as well!… What did you tell him? Did you ask him for money?”

“You must be joking! We've not sunk that low!” he erupted in disbelief. “You know, when I ask for cash, it's always for five hundred euros or more… I made light of the situation and told him it was a bet and that I had to stay a statue until I'd collected twelve euros. He thought it was a hoot and gave me two euros. He said he wouldn't give me more or I wouldn't be playing straight. The bastard!…”

“And did he swallow the bet business?”

“Naturally. It was the most reasonable explanation, given the circumstances…” he smiled. “Besides, I told him that the blonde who'd laid the bet was out of this world and was waiting for me with a bottle of Moët and Chandon behind the curtains of a bedroom at the Oriente,” he added, pleased by his little joke.

Yet again I was amazed by the sang-froid with which my brother faced up to the most ridiculous situations. You had to take your hat off to him. If I'd been in his shoes, I think I'd have died of embarrassment. Obviously, in the first place, I'd never have had the nous to do what he'd just done. Our sense of the ridiculous is really so very personal.

“You know, with that imagination of yours, you could get by writing novels,” I said in admiration as we went down to the platform in the metro. “Perhaps it might be worth your while…”

“Well, I don't deny that if I tried my…” he responded, puckering his eyebrows, jutting out his chin and halfclosing his eyes.

“Hey, hurry up, it's late and I'm hungry,” I shouted, tugging on his sleeve when I heard a train approaching. “Watch out you don't knock into someone!”

My brother can decipher the complicated names that appear on menus in the most expensive restaurants and
choose the right wine for each course, but he's totally bewildered by the Barcelona metro grid.

“Wow, there's even air-conditioning! Do you know how long it is since I travelled by metro?” he asked as we pushed our way into one of the compartments. “Though… what can I say! This may be quicker and cheaper, but frankly, I think taxis are much more comfortable, traffic jams and all. This is quite dreadful… What a stink in here! I'll have to take my suit to the drycleaners in the morning!”

I didn't bother to respond. A middle-aged woman, modestly dressed, her hair dyed aubergine, stood opposite us staring icily at Borja. You couldn't blame her. It was written on that good lady's face that she sweated out four lengthy trips on the metro every day in the rush hour, and I'd been a daily user of this mode of public transport for twenty years and perfectly understood how she felt. Fortunately, we soon reached Fontana and left the metro. The escalator wasn't working and we had to walk up. Outside the sun was still burning down but luckily we were only two minutes from home.